A Song of Sixpence
by Ageless Drake
Summary: What if ... everything was different? AU from fall of Nalbina in opening sequence onward YAOI in some parts
1. When the War Came

_With all the grain of Babylon_

_To cultivate, to make us strong_

_And hidden here behind the walls_

_Our shoulders wide and timber long_

_'til the war came_

_'til the war came._

_ "When the War Came", Verse 1_

**I**

It had been two and a half years since King Raminas had disbanded Dalmasca's Knightly Order to be as they would as civilians; and two years since his untimely death and the passing of the crown to his daughter—young, widowed Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca—ostensibly, but more literally to her forced second husband, a lesser noble of Archadia who was friendly with the Solidor family. Now, there were no militia in the providential Dalmascan towns; no grand army stationed with Nabradia's troops in Nalbina; and no Knights to guard the Princess from the puppeting Archadia forced upon her as a mere figurehead.

Basch fon Ronsenberg was in Nalbina once more, this time with purpose. Normally he went to the once grand fortress-city to remind himself that he was a failure to his creed as a Knight (which usually ended with him in a tavern, drinking away his sorrows, until he was retrieved by a fellow of his); but tonight, he was there to meet with Vossler York Azelas, to collect him after his tenure in the dungeon. This was Vossler's third time in the Nalbina Dungeon—an actual cause had sent him this time, rather than just his insignia of a Dalmascan Knight; he's taken stern offense to an Imperial making eyes at his young daughter, and had attacked the man (so a stupid cause, but a cause nonetheless)—and Basch had been the one to receive notice that his six month detention was over.

He kept his eyes down, knowing there were still people living in Archadia-occupied Nalbina who would know his face as one of the Knights that had not bound together once more to defend King Raminas; or perhaps simply as one of the Captains that had failed to save the paling from falling and save the Lord Rasler from his demise, and strode purposefully to the doors of the fortress which housed both Aerodrome and Dungeon.

Guards loitered with raucous, accented laughter there, sharing a wineskin between them and clearly ignoring Basch's attention. He did not altogether mind, being as he'd much rather be favoring a tavern where people knew him now by name and cared not for what he'd done or was doing with his life; where noone knew him as an outsider, just as another body disheartened by the war, instead of collecting his wayward companion from the Dungeons he felt he should have been sentenced to. For a while, it was simply this, him standing there with head bowed and them ignoring him, until he cleared his throat with all the authority an former Captain could summon toward the men that had stripped him of that title. One of the guards turned toward him, arching a brow, as the other two continued their laughter more softly.

"What is it, _peasant_?" Basch tried not to bristle. He was no peasant; no doubt, had Archadia not expanded, his name would prove to have him well above these men in Caste. But he shoved his righteous anger and indignation aside, and sneered only slightly as he lifted his chin defiantly.

Still, there were no words besides, "I am here to collect Captain Azelas from the Dungeon," and the Imperials chuckled to each other at his expense. He didn't let himself react to it, and promised himself a hearty drink when he and Vossler returned to Rabanastre, to commemorate his ability to control his fists and words. That one guard shook his head slightly, shrugged, and nudged Basch toward the other two with his sword.

"No weapons allowed in the prison, lest yer a guard. And, as ye ain't—." Basch ignored him, and roughly unslung his claymore, handing it over to one guard. Then went the knives he kept on his hip, for cases where the claymore would do him little good. He made no mention of or movement to the daggers tucked into his boots, and the guards reacted as he expected them to. They stowed his things to the side, patted him down once, and nodded to their comrade. He nudged Basch again, as the left-hand guard opened the doors, and then stepped quickly beyond them.

A few steps in, and the door shut behind them with a hard clap. The guard snapped an easy, "Keep up. And don' think 'bout runnin' off now." Basch only tucked his thumb into his belt, and ducked his head again. He could have gone himself; he knew where the Dungeon was, by duty, honor, and foolishness, but he made no notion that he did, and stayed silent behind the Archadian.

Deep in his gut, he felt the roil of hatred he felt every time he was sober and this near an Imperial. Long-seated loathing that stretched back nearly as far as he could remember and that was linked to pain and suffering in people he had once loved; and a newer, more red-hot fervor that came from a thousand small things that had added up to the state they were in now.

The Dungeon was three floors below the foyer they'd come into. First they were in an animated lift that made Basch feel strangely claustrophobic, then down two sets of stairs to the lowest level of the fortress. There were sharp cries of hungry prisoners, and of anger, and from cell to cell from one faction to another; heckling and sharp threats and a thousand things that clouded Basch's mind for a moment until everything fell away to quiet between his ears. They stopped just within the entrance to the Dungeon, and Basch looked around very slowly, remembering things he'd rather not remember from years and months now spent.

Vossler was brought to them, vaguely sedate, the guards behind him by a pace and a half on either shoulder. Basch didn't move to greet him, and was silent as his guard escorted them back up two flights of stairs, onto the lift, and out into the foyer. He gave Basch a short look, as if to ask if he had other business in the fortress; then, he turned to Vossler, and said, "I hope you don't mind; I've something to pick up," before telling the guard, "We won't be using the Aerodrome." So the guard escorted them out of the fortress, where Basch collected his knives and claymore.

In the street, Basch turned, and gave Vossler a very quick look over. There was a new scar on his face, lacing from his cheekbone down to his jawline. Basch's hand rose as if to touch it, then fell to his side once more with a dark chuckle. "Your Carmella won't even recognize you, the next time you come out of Nalbina. What happened to you?"

"'Tis nothing, Basch," Vossler sighed, shrugging. "I was doing nothing more than you would have, in my place; I won my argument." They were silent then, wandering through the northern sprawl of the Nalbina marketplace. After a while, Vossler softly ask, "Something for your boy, then?"

Basch was pointedly silent for a moment, before cutting a sharp look at Vossler and grumbling, "He isn't my _boy_, Vossler."

"Of course. 'Tis uncouth of me to call him such ... though he is quite your junior, Basch."

"He's my _compatriot_, Vossler," Basch corrected, as though Vossler hadn't spoken, "And I'd prefer we not speak of these things in the street."

They were silent again. Vossler walked cleanly abreast of Basch, and Basch tried devilishly hard not to turn at the first tavern they passed to get that well-promised drink, tried to remind himself that this was the man he'd known longest—first in Valendia, after the fall of Landis; then in Dalmasca, as Knights and brothers—and who knew him better than, some days, he knew himself.

The trinket he'd commissioned, the time before this that he was in Nalbina, was nothing more special than simple pounded metal to hang from a belt, an intricate design of Nabradian mythology which Basch had researched sparsely after Reks had told him his mother was from Nabradia. The artisan Basch had found had been only too pleased to create a trinket of his faith, and smiled now as he handed it over to Basch in soft linen wrappings.

He told Basch that it wouldn't keep its shape too long, but perhaps in Rabanastre he could find a silversmith to have it permanently fixed in shape. Basch assured this was already far more than he would normally think to spend (and thus silver was out of the question), and thanked the artisan profusely for his work.

Vossler did not ask to see the trinket until they were into the bazaar of the front causeway of Nalbina. Basch handed it over gently, and Vossler took care with the linen, brushing it aside to inspect the craftsmanship. He handed it back and said, "Your boy will like it."

"Vossler—."

"He might as _well_ be. How much younger is he than you? Eighteen? Nineteen years?" Basch shook his head, and found laughter bubbling over his lips slowly. Vossler jostled him gently, as though they truly were brothers, wry chuckles leaving him as well. He was thinner than he had been six months earlier, and the scar on his face altered his lean face; Basch did not want to believe that this was the same man he had trusted with absolute faith two-and-more years earlier, because Vossler no longer looked the part of a High Captain of Knights.

The teleport crystal gave off a soft hum. There was a queue to it, but it wasn't long. They loitered until the last had gone, talking in soft voices, before taking their own teleport back to the Southgate of Rabanastre. Vossler stumbled, as he always did, as they arrived, wiping his brow and softly grumbling to Basch, "If you were not so destitute, we could have ridden in luxury."

"And Carmella would have had to wait another fortnight for her father." Vossler shook his head, shrugging slightly.

"I doubt she will remember me, anyway."

"She does." Basch clapped Vossler on the shoulder gently, and gave a soft reassuring smile, quietly saying, "'Tis you who may not recognize her. She has grown while you've been away."

"They always do." He sighed softly, looking up at the gate—and, beyond that, over the walls, the very tops of the citadel in the center of town, barely visible for distance and angle. A grumble of thunder threatened from Giza to the south, and Basch broke from Vossler to start toward the freight entrance off the main gate; Vossler chuckled. "Off to your boy? You won't see me to my daughter, then?"

"I believe she's seen enough of me these last six months," Basch said with a shrug, backing away from his friend slowly. "Besides, I've a gift to deliver."

"Aye, you do. I will see you then."

"Stay out of trouble this time." Vossler laughed again, and strode to the Southgate, which was opening for the first of the afternoon transit shifts. Basch went to the freight door, and moved it with little help from a few people with business directly in Lowtown, and entered the soft coolness of the second town of Rabanastre.

When he'd first come to Rabanastre, after Rasler's death and the loss of Nalbina, he'd not thought he'd like Lowtown in the slightest. In those first few months, he'd stayed in hostels off the Muthru Bazaar, and Reks (as well as his younger brother, Vaan, and their sister-figure, Penelo) had come to see him, to wander through the streets. After his last attempt at profession had fallen through—which was common in Rabanastre these days—he'd come down to Lowtown to stay in the small apartment Reks and Vaan shared with Penelo, and another family below theirs. It was surprisingly comforting, he found, to be in Lowtown; it helped that he spent his time in good company, when he was between professions.

After the Knights were disbanded, they'd become something of jack-of-all-trades, most of them. There were a few that had returned to their tiny towns around Dalmasca, others that had returned to their countries of birth; but most were from Rabanastre or thereabouts, and had returned there, to ply what trade they had. Some returned to family practices—two or three men, Basch knew, had taken up work in the Healers Ward of the citadel—and others had turned to lazing about. But most of them, men like he and Vossler and Reks, offered their services for cheap hire: fixing things around the streets, setting up in the bazaar, taking hunts. In a city where there were now either merchants or bodies for hire, they made their way sporadically through the days.

The money that had gone to paying for the trinket had come from Hunts; the money for their rent, paid to Consul Vayne Solidor's tax-men, had come from gods only knew where, dug from Reks and Vaan's pockets. Basch had a mind that a good deal of that gil had come from Imperial purses, though.

He turned a corner of the Northern Sprawl, and caught sight of Reks' weaving through the crowd, helping an older woman carry home things she'd collected from one of the merchants stationed around Lowtown. Basch smiled to himself, and turned away from the sight. Even after months living with the brothers and their friend, he still often got lost in the swirling avenues of Lowtown; today, however, he found his way (and thanked a clear head for that).

The family in the lower apartment was sitting down to a noisy afternoon meal. Shrill children's voices were quelled for eating; older children hurried in from the street, speaking in quick voices. Theirs was a family who had lost husband and sons to the war; the wife of the family didn't condone Reks or Basch, knowing them both to be (at the least) survivors of the war, but could do nothing about it as long as they paid their rent. He climbed the stairs, leaving behind luncheon voices, and opened the door to the small two-bedroom apartment where Vaan and Penelo should have been finishing their own luncheon and starting off for their work as errand-runners for Migelo's Sundries.

They were not, in fact, eating or hurrying for the door, and Basch sighed softly, shutting the door with enough force to startle the two away from each other. Penelo hurried off into the room they shared, blushing cutely and adjusting what would, in a few minutes, be her left-sided braid.

"Do we need to move you onto the couch, Vaan?"

The little blond swore under his breath, and popped his head up over the edge of the small couch he and Penelo had been sharing, grumbling, "You're _not_ my brother. And just because you're sleeping with him, it doesn't mean anything."

"'Tis good to see you as well, child." He removed his weapons, setting them on the table they ate at sporadically. Penelo reappeared from the bedroom, still blushing softly. She walked to Basch, and pecked a soft kiss to his cheek in greeting. "Don't you have elsewhere to be, child?"

"We're just heading out," Penelo perked, nodding with undue enthusiasm. "Should we check out the board in the Sandsea for you?"

"If we're going," Vaan grumbled, hauling himself out of the sinking couch cushions. He played with the clasp of his vest for a moment, and Basch had to look away or think of other things, or both, lest he find himself paying undue attention to the young blond. Penelo nodded to his words, but kept her expectant look on Basch until he shook his head.

"I will check tomorrow. Get on, then."

"See ya, Basch!" Then they were gone, leaving Basch to contemplate the table in silence and pull the linen-wrapped trinket out of his things to trace the pounded-metal contours through the thin fabric.

When the door opened, Basch thought for a moment it was one of the youngers coming back to retrieve something they'd forgotten, but he was pleased to see Reks' surprised face, and found himself smiling as the lean blond rocketed across the small sitting area to wrap his long arms around Basch's neck and embrace him tightly.

"I didn't think you'd be back for a few more days," Reks said into Basch's shoulder softly. Basch chuckled softly, his arms casually draped around the younger man's waist. They were like that for a moment, before Reks smiled, laughing shyly and pulling back. He darted a hank of pale blond hair out of his amber eyes, blushing softly, and asked, "Vossler is doing alright?"

"He injured himself during his tenure, but beyond that seems fine." Reks looked concerned, but Basch assured, "When he sees his daughter, he'll remember to be more careful. He's spent more time at war or in prison than he has with her." Reks didn't look sated from the reassurance; Basch stepped back, grabbing Reks' hand gently and picking up the linen-wrapped trinket with the other hand. "I got you something."

"Basch," Reks muttered, blush darkening softly, and took the gift. "You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to. Worry not." He kissed the young blond's brow gently, then encouraged him wordlessly to unwrap the linen.

As the wrapping fell away, Basch knew he'd done something (_finally_) right, for Reks' face brightened magically, and he looked up in a start, mouth open in joy and surprise. After a moment of silence, Reks launched himself at Basch again, laughing and thanking him.

Basch softly told him, "Tis only pounded metal, but it should hold until I have the gil to have it set in silver—."

"Don't _worry_ about it, Basch," Reks told him, setting it down and wrapping his arms languidly around Basch's neck, "I love it. It's wonderful. Oh, _you're_ wonderful," then kissed him gently on the mouth.

He pulled back to Basch slightly dumbfounded expression, and laughed softly, stepping quickly away. With soft eyes, he beckoned, "Come and show me how to put it on, then." Laughing lips spread in a knowing grin, and, while Basch blushed, he followed Reks to the room across from Vaan and Penelo's, and knew he had no place to argue with those two kissing on the couch.

He pushed all thoughts aside, and, for a short time, knew only the soft sounds of Lowtown (water and banter) and Reks.


	2. The Perfect Crime

_Sing, muse, of the passion of the pistol_

_Sing, muse, of the warning by the whistle_

_A night so dark in the waning_

_A dawn obscured by a slate-sky raining_

_"The Perfect Crime #2", Verse 1_

**II**

Ffamran Bunansa was, in a word, _bored_. It had been a year and a half since he'd been stationed as the Nalbina Consul after the incident concerning a certain viera criminal he'd released (after all, she hadn't been guilty, and it was stupid to lock up the innocent, even when they were an insult to the Empire), and he was in one of those sways where nothing seemed to _happen_ to draw his attention long enough to hold it. Of course, there had been the interesting scuffle a week and a half earlier, concerning a former Dalmascan Knight and some miscellaneous prisoner in the Dungeon which had been harsh enough to have the guards calling him down from his offices to settle the dispute before it ended with death. While the Knight had not seemed in the least interested to listen to a Judge Magister, his attacker had quickly learned the error of his ways, scurrying off to busy himself with gambling or mourning his imprisonment. But now, with the Knight gone and the prisoners mostly quelled of rebellious thoughts after seeing him in the flesh—metal—he was back in that depression of boredom.

"Why so long in the face, Judge?"

The soft lilt had Ffamran looking up and grinning softly, leaning back in his chair and turning to face Fran. She was a sight, in metal and leather, spear strapped over her back and netted helm held in dubiously delicate hands. Her hips swayed when she walked, and she looked to be slightly favoring the left side, but he thought not much of it; she was a strong woman—strong enough to survive Nalbina twice and Archades once, and still live to run off to Balfonhiem and speak of it. He kissed his fingers, and grabbed on of her hands gently as he stood.

"You are very lucky I invite so many beautiful women up here, or someone might have noticed and thought badly of me."

"Your reputation is by no means endangered, Ffamran." Her claret eyes showed her humor, though her face was impassive. He looked up at her, laughed softly, and brushed a lock of snowy hair off her shoulder.

"I've told you before to call me—."

"'Tis seems a trifle foolish, Ffamran, to call you a fictional character."

"A _leading man_, my dear lady." He sighed, stepped away from her, and looked out his window solemnly, saying, "Which I highly doubt I will become elsewise, given present circumstances." She had nothing to say to that, did not even move as he commiserated his depression in silence, before turning to her with a refreshed smile. "So, what news have you of the outside world? I forget 'tis there, until you grace my threshold."

He was honestly surprised at the level of friendship they had achieved, given he had been the Judge in charge of her arrest and that they rarely saw each other. Even then, he could not say what it was that had made him believe in her innocence and set her free with his _Strahl_ three years earlier. There was no logic to their continued relationship—she came and went as she pleased, sometimes with Zecht and other times alone (though he never knew which was which, for Zecht was no fool and tended to be weary of large crowds in Archadian-occupied areas), and spoke to him as though she'd known him since they'd both been children. Often, when stretches were long between her appearances, he wondered if she'd finally moved forward; often, when she appeared out of nowhere (in his office, his room, the bazaar), he wondered if she was convinced she was in his debt for her release from Archades. In the end, he tried not to think of it too hard.

Fran spoke first of things Ffamran knew, and they debated the merits and short-comings of each—new airship plans designed at Draklor; Vayne Solidor being named Consul of Dalmasca; the continued illness of the Emperor—and then of things new to him—the fate of a few men he knew in Balfonhiem, at the hands of Imperials during shipment of their 'wears'; an update on the location of something he'd asked her, the last time she'd shown up, to look for in Landis; and a peculiar tale from the mouth of a Rozzarian heir.

"Oh, Fran? I hadn't thought you the type to hang around with that sort—."

"Think you the only one to bring folk up for appearances, _Balthier_?" He found himself frowning, or perhaps pouting, petulantly, tapping his fingers on his desk as her eyes smiled at him. After a moment, though, he laughed softly, shaking his head softly to her words of, "Besides, he is not so different than you. You haven't place to complain."

"You aim to kill, my love," Ffamran kidded. He steppled his fingers, leaning his elbows on the desk and breaking the mirth with a serious expression. "This doesn't move things in a good fashion. Do you know if anyone else knows of the heirs' meetings?"

"That Judge of yours—Gabranth. He watches Larsa on words from Gramis."

"I wonder, m'lady, how you come by this knowledge of yours some days." He leaned back in his chair, sighing, turning to face the open sky. Watching it, he longed for it, an escape from the repetition of Nalbina and the dreary monotony of Judge life. "Besides Gabranth, do you know if anyone else—."

"The Rozzarian's entourage, surely. They go with him always. But they are tight lipped." She gave a soft noise of vague annoyance at that, but said only, "Some more tight lipped than other."

"I'd fain be in your shoes, Fran, rather than my own, with that knowledge." Once the words had slipped, he swore, and bounded to his feet to open the window and lean out. "By gods, I sound like the old man. Do you know what they're meeting about? The Dusk or Dawn Shards? Nethicite?" He didn't need to turn to see her shake her head, though she was silent in her movement. After a moment of contemplating the sky, he turned from the window and strode to her, touching her arms softly. The fabric of her shirt was soft and smooth under his fingers, and he smoothed it unconsciously. "Keep an eye on things for me, would you? Until I'm let out of my corner."

"Turn your eyes to Dalmasca, then," Fran advised, tapping her netted helm against her leg in what would have been nervous boredom on others. "Vayne, he plans something sinister. I know not what. And the puppet-Queen, she is a part of it."

"I'll have to make sure she isn't around for him to work his tricks on, won't I?" Fran rolled her eyes slightly, sighing softly. He smiled at her, lifting onto his toes a little. "A kiss, m'lady, before you're off again?"

"You are incorrigible."

"Where do you know these words from?" he laughed. She arched a snowy brow at him as he brushed a lock of hair away from her shoulder casually.

"Do you think me stupid, Ffamran?"

"Not in the slightest." She sighed again, bending a little to gently press their lips together.

The door opened with flustered words, tangled together all at once from three Imperial guards, who fell silent at the sight. Ffamran sighed exaggeratedly as Fran pulled casually away from their kiss and fixed her netted helm atop her head. They stared at her, eyes occasionally darting to him as he rubbed the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache of sheer annoyance, saying she would see herself out. As she strode to them, they parted like holy seas, watching her go, before the most senior of them began to gather his composure.

Ffamran encouraged it. "Yes. Captain Mies. _What_ is it?"

The Captain saluted sharply, now that he'd been given purpose. "We've news from his Lord Emperor, sir." He fidgeted for a moment, before holding out a ticker-tape of transmission, which Ffamran took with all the cold indifference befitting a Judge as the Captain continued to speak. "The Lord Larsa will be arriving tomorrow, sir. He wishes—."

"I can read, Captain Mies." He nodded softly, proud that things, despite how they appeared, had fallen easily into his grasp. "You're dismissed. All of you."

"Sir!" They all saluted stiffly, and hurried out. As the last left and his door shut, Ffamran heaved a heavy sigh, and leaned back against his desk, rubbing his brow. As it was, there were three ways the pawns could move—his way; the Emperor's way; or in the way of the gods.

Hopefully, with Fran tailing the Margrace heir and Gabranth with Larsa, he would have only his only moves working out for him. hr The Palace Gardens were the one place Ashelia had left, really, after Rasler and her father died. They were refuge only in that her second husband, Kelic, was loathe to enter the herb-heavy garden, pleading that the cloying smells were too heavy for him to stand. She was only too happy to leave behind smothering courtiers and her abominable Archadian husband for that mint- and rosemary-heavy smell, sitting in the cool humidity of the garden.

Today, due to the unseasonable rains, she watched the gardens from the portico, flipping cards listlessly in a game of Gypsies. The stiff cards slid through her fingers easily, plodding onto the stone bench with soft clicks. Above her, the rain dropped in heavy curtains, half-concealing the garden beyond her. Everything had taken on a dreary steel-gray tint, suiting the mood that had haunted her since Rasler's untimely death—and, even heavier since her father's death—and it seemed the only colors came from the rose bushes closest to the portico, whose blossoms were dark red and closed to the rain; and the cards in her fingers, with such jovial paintings across the stiffly lacquered parchment.

"My lady?"

She didn't react to the voice, except to pay more pointed attention to the cards at hand. She surveyed the spread before her, collected the cards, and shuffled them in her lap noisily. There were two people behind her—a hand maiden whose name she could never quite remember (Lucil ... Lucia ... something of that sort), and a man who was not her husband or one of the male nobles that frequented court from Archades or out of what remained of the Nabudis court.

"My Lady Ashelia, the Consul—."

"I'm busy now," she said sternly, dealing out the cards for another hand of Gypsies and frowning slightly. The Consul had been given rooms in the Palace, but she had only seen the elder Solidor son once or twice, at formal, full-court dinners. He was a regal man; handsome, and charismatic, with an easy smile and suspiciously gentle eyes for a man who had seen so much war (even Rasler's eyes had not been soft like that). For whatever reason, many of which Ashelia could not place, he unsettled her stomach—she had not had to feign the last time they'd dined in court, feeling ill.

"My Lady—."

"'Tis a trifle, Lucia. That will be all. Thank you for showing me to Her Ladyship." She could hear him bowing to her little hand maiden, and supposed the girl was blushing and trying not to giggle, no doubt swaying her hips as she strode off down the portico to reenter the citadel and return to her finery.

Vayne Solidor did not sit beside her, thankfully, but strode to the balustrade and stared out into the gardens quietly. Ashelia continued to deal her hand, scanning and moving cards quickly, waiting for the Consul's next move. There was only the sound of the rain for some time, until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Consul move, and come to stand over her shoulder.

"The nine of wands, Ladyship." She blinked at the spread, and moved as he'd directed, thanking him crisply. He chuckled, a silky and too suave noise, and settled above the spread on the bench. After a moment, she curled over the cards, almost protectively, and looked up at him through lashes and hair; he was intent on the spread, and tapped a different card. "Six of disks. Do you play Gypsies often, Ladyship?"

"Only when I can get away." It was meant to sound as though it didn't happen often, but the Consul chuckled softly.

"I'm surprised you aren't better at the game, Ladyship." She stiffened, and slapped down the deck, looking up at the Consul sharply. He held up his hand in placation. "I meant no offense, Lady Ashelia. Please; my apologizes."

She collected the cards, stood and approached the balustrade, tucking the cards into her sleeve nervously. He remained seated, watching her every move. Silently, she extended her hands out into the rain, relishing in the soft coolness that came with the fat droplets.

After a time, he came and stood beside her. Her stomach was tight, her head filled with rage and undue fear. His voice was quiet under the rain: "I came to tell you that I will be receiving guests on the morrow. Some people I would like you to meet, if 'twould please your Ladyship."

"Of course."

"My brother, and perhaps a Judge or two," he told her gently. She shrugged one shoulder elegantly, crossing one hand over the other. He brushed a gloved hand over her shoulder, and ignored the shudder that ran down her spine. "I think you will enjoy Larsa's company, Lady Ashelia. You are both very likeminded."

"I'm sure."

"Oh come, Princess," Vayne sighed, resting the small of his back against the balustrade and leaning just enough to catch her eye. He smiled disarmingly, and waved around the empty portico. "There is noone here, as might hear us. No courtiers to gossip, or husbands to upset. Tell me: what is troubling you so, Ladyship?"

She wanted to say, _I want you out. I want Dalmasca back as my own, and I want you and your damn Archadians to go back to where you came from and stay there. What did we ever do to you? What did Nabradia do to Archades? Or Landis? Or any other land you've conquered?_ Instead, she said, "I wonder, about Kelic some days."

"What about him?"

"He strikes me a trifle ... curious," she demurred softly. The Consul gave a soft chuckle at her shyness. "At times, it seems he is not interested in ... my body—."

"Lord Llonguement was not chosen as your consort for his ... hn, _marital abilities_." He let that sink in with the quiet of the rain, and Ashelia found herself blinking out at the water-curtain, letting the words slowly fester.

"Oh," she murmured gently, when the words suddenly clicked in her mind and she felt her face color slightly. The Consul chuckled softly, and when she looked, he too had a vague color on the very top of his cheeks. "_Oh_."

"Also, he'd been of some ... _insult_ in court, concerning my brother. My Emperor Father thought it wise that he be put in a position where—."

"Where he wouldn't get in too much trouble?" she bit sternly, pulling back from the balustrade and scowling softly at Vayne. He inclined his head, once more raising his hands in placation, and this time landing them gently on her shoulders; she threw them off quickly, snapping a frigid, "Do not think you can play me as one of your _pawns_, Vayne Solidor—."

"I would not think of it, Ladyship."

"—I will not be played for a fool! I will not remain a figurehead for you and your _father_ and _brother_, for your grand plans!" She swallowed the rest of her words, uttered a deep-throated growl of distress and distaste, and strode quickly away from the Consul. Behind her, before she entered the citadel, she heard Vayne's soft laughter, and felt the vehement anger and frustration only boil over twice as hot.

Kelic found her, some time later, in her bedroom, sitting at her vanity and staring into her jewelry box silently. She clapped it shut as he peered over her shoulder, and turned quickly.

"Please leave," she told him, in short, cold words. Kelic blinked at her—too pretty eyes on a too pretty face, and she couldn't quite stop thinking about what Vayne had insinuated with his words (they had chosen him because he _wouldn't_, perhaps _could not_, incept a child and heir with her)—before touching her face gently. She brushed him off, and stood, pointing to the door. "Leave, Kelic. Now. I wish not to see you."

"You're distraught, Miss Ashelia."

"It is nothing," she assured, trying to lighten her voice and words. He clearly read through it, but said nothing of it, ducking his face behind his cinnamon hair and murmuring a gentle platitude as he retreated out of her bedroom.

As he left and she sat heavily at her vanity once more, to open her jewelry box and retrieve Rasler's ring, she could not say whether or not she was pleased with his placating nature and gentle bearing; there was, surely, a certain safety in knowing she'd been married to someone whom she had no marital obligations to. And Kelic was a sweet man to her.

Still, as she stared at Rasler's ring in her hand, she could not help ... hoping for more, perhaps. If she could not have her Kingdom, she would very much like to have something beyond a forced marriage to a man who would be more likely to touch one of their young pages than her. Even if it was not for love—it had been two and a half years since she had felt passion's flush on her, and she was not so saddened with the thought of marrying, not for love, if she were to receive a willing partner in bed.

_Forgive me, Father. Rasler._ She shook her head, and shut her eyes to tears as her fingers curled around Rasler's ring. _Forgive me, and help me._


End file.
